The Horseman Rides
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: Picture it: modern day Sleepy Hollow. A normal teenage girl in a not-so-normal town. A string of murders start, precariously similar to the Headless Horseman's technique. Problem: guess who's behind it? PG for mild violence and swearing.
1. The Warning

Prologue  
The Warning  
  
Steps fell softly on the newly fallen autumn leaves.   
Crunch...crunch...  
The steps carried the girl down the beaten path, through the forest of color.  
Crunch...crunch...  
Trees bent and swayed, submitting to the wind, their brightly hued leaves now tears swirling about.  
Crunch...crunch...  
She walked along in silence, a pack strung over her shoulder. Scarlet hair whirled about her face, mixing with the reds and oranges and yellows of the leaves.  
Crunch...crunch...  
Silent she was, and silent she stayed. Until she saw the man.  
Crunch--  
The girl stopped.  
  
The man was leaning against a tree, leaves twirling and falling at his feet. He was pale, so gaunt and pale. The black of his hair was a shock to the white of his skin, not even the slightest of rose blushing his high cheekbones. Cloaked in darkness, draped in shadows, the man stood there. Then he spoke.  
"Be you from Sleepy Hollow?" The girl stared at him, a hand nervously playing with the strap of her bookbag.  
"Why?" He smiled slightly, his noble face growing ever more handsome.  
"I simply wish to know if you hail from Sleepy Hollow."  
"Yes," the girl frowned, backing up a bit, another crunch echoing through the woods. "but I go to school in the town over. But why--"  
"'Tis not of importance, My Lady," the man said smoothly, waving an elegant hand. She stayed in her place for a moment before charging forward, on the path to her destination once more.  
"If it's not of importance, then why bother me with questions?" The girl kept her eyes on the leaf-strewn ground until he spoke again.  
"I wished to warn you, My Lady." She stopped.  
"Of what?" The girl turned slowly, meeting eyes with the dark stranger. "And why do you talk so differently?" The man did not even shift as he answered.  
"I wished to warn you that the Horseman rides at midnight." He finally stepped out to the path, standing a few feet from where she was. "It is a admonition, my dear. Remember--the Horseman rides at midnight." The man gave her a slight bow, then began walking slowly opposite of her. Then he turned. "I am also from Sleepy Hollow." With a short, mirthless grin, he turned once again. The leaves whirled, jumped, danced...the wind scattered them, sending them adrift. When the girl could see through the cloud of color, the man was gone.  
  
Chapter I  
The Meeting  
  
The grandfather clock ticked incessantly in the hallway. A cat slept soundly on top of a chair, the white of its fur causing it to look like a rather interesting doily. The silence wasn't broken, save the occasional turning of a page. Then the door banged open. In she ran, dropping her red bookbag unceremoniously by the foyer closet. The girl tore down the long stretch of hall, white tennis shoes thudding shamelessly on the hardwood floor.  
"Grandpa!" She skidded to a stop by a door. Quickly, she seized the brass knob and turned, sticking her head in. "Grandpa!" The cat's blue eyes snapped open and it went toppling off its resting place. The girl obviously had little sympathy for the feline. She charged past it and whipped open yet another door. "Grandpa!" The old man in the study looked up.  
"Charlotte, what's wrong?" Panting, the girl sat down in an armchair near him.  
"There was a man...and he was on the path...and he talked to me...and..." Charlotte stopped, eyes taking in the title of the book her grandfather held--Studies of Logical Reasoning. She stared at the book for a moment, then shook her head and stood. "Nevermind. It was stupid." Her grandfather frowned after her.  
"Wait a minute. You were talking about a man on the path--" The girl turned, resting against the arm of a chair.  
"Nevermind, Grandpa. There was a bird on the path, and I thought I saw somebody in the trees." Her eyes drifted down to the cat by her feet, its pristine fur mussed from its fall. "It was a mistake."  
"Lottie, it's not my idea of a joke to come running in here, scaring me and Albert out of our minds--" Charlotte scowled at her shoes.  
"I hate that cat," she muttered, sending a glare to the disgruntled feline.  
"Albert is a nice cat," her grandfather declared indignantly. As if in response, the cat hissed and swatted at Charlotte's white tennis shoes.  
"I'm sorry." she mumbled, as much to the floor as to her grandfather.  
"It's all right." He ran a hand through his snowy hair before continuing. "Lottie, if there's something wrong, you need to tell me."  
"No, Grandpa. Nothing's wrong." Charlotte forced a smile. "My imagination got the best of me." The old man sighed and turned back to his book, spectacled eyes peering at the pages.   
"Whatever you say, dear. Just try not to get all riled up so often." The girl's hazel eyes watched him for a moment before she turned and sulked back out to the family room.  
  
"Stupid cat." Charlotte grumbled, her words half-audible. Albert had slipped into the den with her before she shut the door to her grandfather's study. He settled quietly on a footstool, grooming his paws meticulously. The girl sneered at him. "You're always getting me in trouble, you know that? I swear, Grandpa defends you more than me." The cat didn't listen to her; he continued preening. Charlotte forgot about her disgust with Albert and began fiddling absent-mindedly with the twisted ring of silver around her thumb. "There was a man out there," she mumbled, rotating the ring slowly. Then she frowned. "And I was not all riled up."  
  
"Charlotte O'Farland?" She nodded, pushing back a strand of pesky red hair. The delivery man held out a clipboard and a pen. "Sign, please." Charlotte took the board and signed it with a flourish. He handed her a very small package. "There. Have a nice day." She nodded half-heartedly and closed the door, turning to the living room. The return address read, 'Mr. and Mrs. Adrian O'Farland; Devon, England.' Charlotte scowled at the label and ripped off the brown paper. Revealed was a small green box. She took off the lid and set it down on the table, sitting down on the couch. Inside lay a delicate silver cross on a thin chain. Charlotte inhaled sharply and drew it from the cotton. The cross held an elliptical diamond in its center. Her fingertip stroked the stone, but then she noticed the note in the bottom of the box. Carefully setting down the necklace, she pulled out the paper and unfolded it.  
Dearest Charlotte,  
We are so dreadfully sorry that we could not be there for your birthday. Next year, darling. Your sweet sixteen will be perfect. Your mother and I have been terribly busy lately with business that could not be avoided. We promise, little one. We will be there next year.  
All our love,  
Mum and Da  
  
Charlotte crumpled up the note in an angry fist. They always made excuses. Always. They never just came out and said that they hadn't come, they wouldn't come, they never would come. Business was always a barrier between the uncomfortable subject. Glowering, she tossed the note at the trash can and shoved the necklace back in its box. If her parents couldn't give her the thing face to face, she wouldn't wear it.  
  
Her grandfather hobbled in, weathered hand patting Albert on the head as he passed.  
"Lottie, what are you doing out here?" Charlotte tucked the box quickly behind a throw pillow.  
"Just watching television," she said casually. He frowned.  
"The television's not turned on, sweetheart." She glanced at the blank screen, then laughed.  
"Imagine. Here I am, staring at a TV that's not turned on and I thought I was watching an extremely dark episode of 'Dawson's Creek'." The old man winced, touching his left leg, then sat down.  
"Charlotte, I don't like it when you lie to me." She looked at the floor, then back up to him.  
"Sorry, Grandpa Vincent." Vincent O'Farland opened his mouth to speak, but his words were stopped by a groan. Charlotte jumped up. "Is your leg bothering you?"  
"Only in cold weather, you know that," he chuckled. Then he cringed again. "And there's a frost coming on." She hurried to the kitchen.  
"I'll get you some ice."  
"No," O'Farland began, standing. "I think I'll just go to bed. It'll be better in the morning." She closed the refrigerator door and ran to his side.  
"Not if it's colder in the morning." The old man chuckled and hugged her gently.  
"Don't worry so much about me, little Lottie. I'll be fine by morning." Slowly, he limped towards the end of the hall. "Good night." Charlotte bit her lip, then called after him,  
"Don't forget!" His hand rested on the doorknob.  
"Forget what?"  
"May the morning bring smiles, may smiles bring love, may smiles bring angels from heaven above." Her grandfather chuckled.  
"Of course. Good night, little Lottie." He twisted the knob and disappeared into his bedroom.  
  
Charlotte stared at the door for a few minutes. How could her grandfather have forgotten about their ritual? Every night they said it, just before he went to bed. And he forgot. Quietly, she unlocked the door and slid outside to sit on the front steps. The night was cold and clear, stars twinkling above and the moon shining bright. Charlotte toyed with her red hair and watched the trees sway gently with the wind.  
  
Everything was suddenly so confusing. She never saw her parents, she wasn't accepted in school, her grandfather was aching and forgetting...and the man. Her wandering thoughts brought the memory back with a snap. That man. What had he been doing there? How did he know she was from Sleepy Hollow? Charlotte was suddenly and fully aware of the cold. She scurried inside to get a blanket, then resettled on the white whicker chair near the porch light. She drew the blanket tight around her, keeping out the icy chills. The moon moved slowly through the dark sky, and before she knew it, she was asleep.  
  
Hoofbeats...She could hear hoofbeats...  
They were loud, angry...but they were not clumsy...No, the hoofbeats were smooth and elegant, but there was wrath behind them...rage...fury as hot as hell's fire...  
The moon hung heavy in the velvet sky, a huge white eye watching them all...  
Then there was the horse...  
With a whicker of vehemence, the steed went charging down the street...instead of dirt, the hooves hit blacktop...  
The rider didn't even use the reigns...the horse knew where they were going...Into the driveway they charged...the horse stopped immediately...the rider climbed down and walked with harsh, sharp steps into the house...There was a shout, a scream, a slice...  
And silence...  
Out marched the rider, hoisting himself back into the saddle...and off he rode into the dark night, his work accomplished...he was without mercy...He set out to do the deed, he reached his destination, and then the deed was done...this was his way...  
This was the Horseman...  
  
She leapt from sleep with a cry, nearly falling from her chair. The blanket had already slipped off, but in her sleep she had perspired. The sweat covering her forehead chilled her body as the cold wind hit her. Quickly, Charlotte looked around to find the warm quilt. Her eyes fell on the blanket lying on the front walk--right by the man's feet.  
  
He'd come back.  
  
She was afraid to go get the comforter, so she just sat there in the wicker chair and shivered. After a moment, he bent and picked up the blanket.  
"Is this yours?" The man canted his head slightly, hiding a chuckle. "You look rather cold." Charlotte clapped her hands to her bare arms to tame the goosebumps.  
"What are you doing here?" He took a few steps towards her, but stopped when her eyes widened.  
"I wish to say I am here on holiday, but I'm afraid business brings me to your door." She wrinkled her nose.  
"Business? What do you mean?" The man's lips twisted into something of a smile.  
"Ah, but it is not proper for me to reveal my secrets until you unveil yours." Charlotte frowned, eyeing the quilt in his hands longingly.  
"What secrets?" The man stepped a little closer.  
"It is not proper for the lady to ask all the questions either. However, I will grant you the answer. Your name?" She lowered her eyes. She wasn't sure whether she should tell this man her name, but it seemed to flow easily from her mouth.  
"Charlotte O'Farland." He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, as if her name were a sweet perfume.  
"Charlotte...a name as lovely as the girl who bears it." She blushed, though her face was barely visible in the dark night.  
"Um...thank you. Your name?" The man kept a steady gaze with her.  
"All in good time, Lady O'Farland." Suddenly alarmed at how dark it had gotten, Charlotte straightened.  
"Oh, gosh, what time is it? Grandpa'll kill me if he catches me out here--" Her words were cut off by a shriek. The man smiled.  
"'Tis midnight, Lady O'Farland. The Horseman rides."  
  
Chapter II  
The Telling  
  
Charlotte stifled a small cry and jumped to her feet. Her breathing was irregular as she pointed down the street, jabbing the darkness with her finger.  
"What...what was that?" The man cocked his head.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"That...scream. Who screamed?" She craned her neck to see around the porch. "I think it came from the Miller's--"  
"I told you, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte turned quickly, seeing that he was now standing on the porch.  
"Get away from me!" She scrambled back against the front door. "What's going on?" The man's face was solemn as he watched her for a moment.  
"I told you before, Lady O'Farland," he said very quietly. "the Horseman rides." She swallowed, then swallowed again.  
"What, exactly, does that mean?" He continued to stare at her gravely.  
"Make of it what you will." the man said, fingering the designs on the forgotten quilt. Charlotte kept her body pressed back against the screen of the door. She opened her mouth to speak when the thought hit her suddenly. Sleepy Hollow, of course...  
"The Headless Horseman?"  
  
A small, dry smirk lit up the man's face.  
"Well, Lady O'Farland. It seems you've finally caught on."  
"But...that was just a book..."  
"I beg to differ, my dear." The man's face had suddenly gone hard. Charlotte shook her head. Her grandfather rarely indulged in story books, so it had been ages since she'd actually heard the legend. Ages--since her parents had left.  
"No. I want to know what's going on at the Miller's, not some stupid fairy tale--"  
"It would be best, Lady O'Farland, if you did not speak with such arrogance." The man, a frown hovering on his brows, stepped back slightly. "Especially when dealing with matters you do not understand." Calming herself rapidly, she pressed her palm to her forehead and closed her eyes.  
"All right. Let's examine this logically."  
"Logic." He scoffed. "I find logic useless in this sort of predicament--"  
"Could you please not interrupt me?!" Charlotte shrieked, out of patience and deep in panic. The man's eyes narrowed, but he said softly,  
"As you wish."  
"Good." She leaned away from the door and walked the length of the porch to see down the street. "That scream came from the Miller's, I'm pretty sure. I think we better call the police." He sighed impatiently, dropping the blanket and letting his hands fall to his pockets. Charlotte turned to face him. "What now?"  
"Do you really think a constable can help you?" His voice had the air of one who spoke to a tiny child.  
"Of course!" She threw her hands up in the air. "A policeman has guns! A policeman can stop the criminal and help the Millers and--"  
"Sleepy Hollow had constables, Lady O'Farland." The man walked towards her to rest near the front steps. "Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow had constables as well. And they could not stop him." She clenched her fists, eyes flicking from her neighbors' house to him.  
"If you're talking about the Headless Horseman, I swear I'll break your arm. This is no time to break into a legend of--"  
"This is the exact time to tell the legend, Charlotte!" His voice's volume rose greatly. Charlotte jumped. "This is the precise time to educate you of what forces you are dealing with!" Her breathing had become heavy again. Slowly, she sank into the wicker chair and stared at him.  
"Go ahead, Mr. Dark and Mysterious," she whispered, shivering once again. The man stooped, picking up the blanket. He stared at the woven fabric hard, then looked up and held out towards her.  
"I will tell you what I know," he said, voice equally hushed. "and I pray to God I can help." Charlotte reached and took the quilt, her hand brushing his as she pulled the blanket over her. His hand was cold, cold and hard. Like silver. She hadn't noticed how his eyes were like that too; they had that gleam of ice, that glitter of something that was not quite right. Silver eyes and hands, she thought suddenly. How weird.  
  
The man remained standing, tucking his hands inside his pockets for warmth.  
"Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow stood alone in the countryside, a mere stitch of thread in the quilt of land. The season Ichabod Crane arrived in the little village was cold and clear; trees reached to the skies with fingers of branches, some bare and some stained with color. He settled in the town rapidly, taking over the role of schoolmaster. He also joined the local posse to act as a constable, as most men felt obligated to do, keeping the womenfolk and children safe.  
Crane was an intelligent man, and though he indulged in fanciful stories and whimsical legends, he was a rather frightened man. The stories he read unnerved him, so science and logic became his shield. If they held strong, the evils of the underworld could not harm him.  
While attending a party one Halloween, a local man decided Crane was getting too close to the lovely, enigmatic Katrina Van Tassel. Immediately, he brought up the subject of a missing man. Not many people knew this man, but everyone concluded (with their own silly reasons) that this was the work of the Horseman. Crane knew of the legend well, and this discussion excited him. Instead of proving that he was a coward in front of Lady Van Tassel, it brought out the storyteller in him. The local man--Bones, I think his name was--left in a storm of fury, muttering about revenge. His grumblings were unheard, however, and Katrina and Ichabod talked late into the night.  
Finally, Crane realized how late it was and that he must hurry home immediately. Before leaving, he promised the charming Lady Van Tassel that he would solve the murder and prove a logical explanation.  
'Have no fear, my dear Katrina,' he chuckled, 'the murderer will not have thee. I vow to smite him down for his crime and bring justice to our fair Sleepy Hollow.' And with that, he bid her adieu and rode into the darkened forest."  
  
The man had suddenly grown quiet. Charlotte didn't like the pause. It accentuated the night sounds--the crickets chirping, dogs barking, frogs croaking, a horse running somewhere...sword clanking at the rider's side...  
"Go on," she urged. He looked up abruptly, startled by her sharp voice.  
"The horse seemed to grow more nervous the deeper they rode, and so did Crane. Every sound seemed infinitely louder. Each insect whistling made him jump. Instead of going back, instead of revealing his apprehension, Crane merely urged the gelding on. But there was another horse in the forest. A stallion of pure black, a horse to match its rider's heart...  
That horse approached Ichabod slowly. Atop the steed sat a man, armor covering his body. Except for his head. He had no head...  
Crane turned tail and ran, but the feeble pony he rode was no match for the snorting charger behind. The Horseman, the Headless Horseman rode him down that night. He slid the burning metal from its sheath, handling it as if it were no more than a feather, and in one graceful slice--"  
"Stop, stop!" Charlotte had drew the blanket so tight around her that her knuckles had turned white. The man stopped midsentence. There was an uncomfortable period of silence.  
  
"I'm sorry if I frightened you."  
"It's just...I haven't heard that story since I was little, and..." She swallowed, her eyes flicking down the street. "...you're a very convincing narrator." He smiled ruefully.  
"I think I gave you everything you need to know."  
"But...what about the Millers? How will I know--"  
"You'll know, Lady O'Farland." The man drew his hands from his pockets to clasp them behind his back. "And if what I suspect has happened, then they are beyond help now."  
"So I can't do anything?"  
"No." Charlotte's insides chilled. The Millers had a little boy, two years old at the most. What if he was... "Forgive me, Lady O'Farland, for forcing such a morbid tale upon you. I fear, however, that you needed to know." He turned slowly and began walking away. Charlotte sat up.  
"What? So you give me that big song and dance and that's it?"  
"You know enough for now. I will return."  
"But--you didn't tell me your name--" He whirled around, and that look was in his eyes again. That silver, untouchable look...  
"I gave you enough information! Leave me at peace!"  
"All right!" She sat back again. "Go away, then!" The man turned and loped away carefully, like he'd never spoken to Charlotte in his life.  
"I bid you farewell, Lady O'Farland. Sweet dreams." Charlotte watched him walk away. His steps were graceful and planned, almost as if he were stepping around land mines. She looked down the street, towards the Millers' again, taking her focus from the man. Had she watched long enough, she would've seen he had one hand rubbing tensely around his neck. 


	2. The Telling

Chapter II  
The Telling  
  
Charlotte stifled a small cry and jumped to her feet. Her breathing was irregular as she pointed down the street,  
jabbing the darkness with her finger.  
"What...what was that?" The man cocked his head.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"That...scream. Who screamed?" She craned her neck to see around the porch. "I think it came from the Miller's--"  
"I told you, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte turned quickly, seeing that he was now standing on the porch.  
"Get away from me!" She scrambled back against the front door. "What's going on?" The man's face was solemn as he  
watched her for a moment.  
"I told you before, Lady O'Farland," he said very quietly. "the Horseman rides." She swallowed, then swallowed again.  
"What, exactly, does that mean?" He continued to stare at her gravely.  
"Make of it what you will." the man said, fingering the designs on the forgotten quilt. Charlotte kept her body pressed back  
against the screen of the door. She opened her mouth to speak when the thought hit her suddenly. Sleepy Hollow, of course...  
"The Headless Horseman?"  
  
A small, dry smirk lit up the man's face.  
"Well, Lady O'Farland. It seems you've finally caught on."  
"But...that was just a book..."  
"I beg to differ, my dear." The man's face had suddenly gone hard. Charlotte shook her head. Her grandfather rarely indulged in  
story books, so it had been ages since she'd actually heard the legend. Ages--since her parents had left.  
"No. I want to know what's going on at the Miller's, not some stupid fairy tale--"  
"It would be best, Lady O'Farland, if you did not speak with such arrogance." The man, a frown hovering on his brows, stepped  
back slightly. "Especially when dealing with matters you do not understand." Calming herself rapidly, she pressed her palm to  
her forehead and closed her eyes.  
"All right. Let's examine this logically."  
"Logic." He scoffed. "I find logic useless in this sort of predicament--"  
"Could you please not interrupt me?!" Charlotte shrieked, out of patience and deep in panic. The man's eyes narrowed, but he  
said softly,  
"As you wish."  
"Good." She leaned away from the door and walked the length of the porch to see down the street. "That scream came from the  
Miller's, I'm pretty sure. I think we better call the police." He sighed impatiently, dropping the blanket and letting his hands fall to  
his pockets. Charlotte turned to face him. "What now?"  
"Do you really think a constable can help you?" His voice had the air of one who spoke to a tiny child.  
"Of course!" She threw her hands up in the air. "A policeman has guns! A policeman can stop the criminal and help the Millers  
and--"  
"Sleepy Hollow had constables, Lady O'Farland." The man walked towards her to rest near the front steps. "Back when the  
town was young, Sleepy Hollow had constables as well. And they could not stop him." She clenched her fists, eyes flicking from  
her neighbors' house to him.  
"If you're talking about the Headless Horseman, I swear I'll break your arm. This is no time to break into a legend of--"  
"This is the exact time to tell the legend, Charlotte!" His voice's volume rose greatly. Charlotte jumped. "This is the precise time  
to educate you of what forces you are dealing with!" Her breathing had become heavy again. Slowly, she sank into the wicker  
chair and stared at him.  
"Go ahead, Mr. Dark and Mysterious," she whispered, shivering once again. The man stooped, picking up the blanket. He  
stared at the woven fabric hard, then looked up and held out towards her.  
"I will tell you what I know," he said, voice equally hushed. "and I pray to God I can help." Charlotte reached and took the quilt,  
her hand brushing his as she pulled the blanket over her. His hand was cold, cold and hard. Like silver. She hadn't noticed how  
his eyes were like that too; they had that gleam of ice, that glitter of something that was not quite right. Silver eyes and hands,  
she thought suddenly. How weird.  
  
The man remained standing, tucking his hands inside his pockets for warmth.  
"Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow stood alone in the countryside, a mere stitch of thread in the quilt of land. The  
season Ichabod Crane arrived in the little village was cold and clear; trees reached to the skies with fingers of branches, some  
bare and some stained with color. He settled in the town rapidly, taking over the role of schoolmaster. He also joined the local  
posse to act as a constable, as most men felt obligated to do, keeping the womenfolk and children safe.  
Crane was an intelligent man, and though he indulged in fanciful stories and whimsical legends, he was a rather  
frightened man. The stories he read unnerved him, so science and logic became his shield. If they held strong, the evils of the  
underworld could not harm him.  
While attending a party one Halloween, a local man decided Crane was getting too close to the lovely, enigmatic  
Katrina Van Tassel. Immediately, he brought up the subject of a missing man. Not many people knew this man, but everyone  
concluded (with their own silly reasons) that this was the work of the Horseman. Crane knew of the legend well, and this  
discussion excited him. Instead of proving that he was a coward in front of Lady Van Tassel, it brought out the storyteller in him.  
The local man--Bones, I think his name was--left in a storm of fury, muttering about revenge. His grumblings were unheard,  
however, and Katrina and Ichabod talked late into the night.  
Finally, Crane realized how late it was and that he must hurry home immediately. Before leaving, he promised the  
charming Lady Van Tassel that he would solve the murder and prove a logical explanation.  
'Have no fear, my dear Katrina,' he chuckled, 'the murderer will not have thee. I vow to smite him down for his crime and bring  
justice to our fair Sleepy Hollow.' And with that, he bid her adieu and rode into the darkened forest."  
  
The man had suddenly grown quiet. Charlotte didn't like the pause. It accentuated the night sounds--the crickets  
chirping, dogs barking, frogs croaking, a horse running somewhere...sword clanking at the rider's side...  
"Go on," she urged. He looked up abruptly, startled by her sharp voice.  
"The horse seemed to grow more nervous the deeper they rode, and so did Crane. Every sound seemed infinitely louder. Each  
insect whistling made him jump. Instead of going back, instead of revealing his apprehension, Crane merely urged the gelding  
on. But there was another horse in the forest. A stallion of pure black, a horse to match its rider's heart...  
That horse approached Ichabod slowly. Atop the steed sat a man, armor covering his body. Except for his head. He  
had no head...  
Crane turned tail and ran, but the feeble pony he rode was no match for the snorting charger behind. The Horseman,  
the Headless Horseman rode him down that night. He slid the burning metal from its sheath, handling it as if it were no more  
than a feather, and in one graceful slice--"  
"Stop, stop!" Charlotte had drew the blanket so tight around her that her knuckles had turned white. The man stopped  
midsentence. There was an uncomfortable period of silence.  
  
"I'm sorry if I frightened you."  
"It's just...I haven't heard that story since I was little, and..." She swallowed, her eyes flicking down the street. "...you're a very  
convincing narrator." He smiled ruefully.  
"I think I gave you everything you need to know."  
"But...what about the Millers? How will I know--"  
"You'll know, Lady O'Farland." The man drew his hands from his pockets to clasp them behind his back. "And if what I suspect  
has happened, then they are beyond help now."  
"So I can't do anything?"  
"No." Charlotte's insides chilled. The Millers had a little boy, two years old at the most. What if he was... "Forgive me, Lady  
O'Farland, for forcing such a morbid tale upon you. I fear, however, that you needed to know." He turned slowly and began  
walking away. Charlotte sat up.  
"What? So you give me that big song and dance and that's it?"  
"You know enough for now. I will return."  
"But--you didn't tell me your name--" He whirled around, and that look was in his eyes again. That silver, untouchable look...  
"I gave you enough information! Leave me at peace!"  
"All right!" She sat back again. "Go away, then!" The man turned and loped away carefully, like he'd never spoken to Charlotte  
in his life.  
"I bid you farewell, Lady O'Farland. Sweet dreams." Charlotte watched him walk away. His steps were graceful and planned,  
almost as if he were stepping around land mines. She looked down the street, towards the Millers' again, taking her focus from  
the man. Had she watched long enough, she would've seen he had one hand rubbing tensely around his neck.  



	3. The Slaying

Chapter III  
The Slaying  
  
"Charlotte? Charlotte! Wake up!" Her world was dark. "Charlotte, wake *up*!" Slowly her hazel eyes drifted open. Her  
grandfather was in front of her, shaking her shoulders. Charlotte moaned and closed her eyes.  
"Go 'way," she muttered, trying to pull the blanket up over her head. The quilt was given a sharp tug and went flying from her  
hand. O'Farland glared at her.  
"Charlotte Lucinda O'Farland, march yourself inside this very moment!" Uh oh. He'd used her middle name. Charlotte *hated* her  
middle name, and her grandfather only used it when he was either very angry or very scared. She opened her eyes carefully.  
Well, considering his face was a mix of purple and red, there was a very slim chance that he was scared. Without another word,  
she stood and slipped back into the house, only vaguely realizing that she'd fallen asleep outside.  
  
The door closed behind her with a bang.  
"What in the name of all that is good and holy do you think you're doing?" Charlotte bit her lip, trying to figure out what, exactly,  
she'd done wrong. She sat down to think better, but Vincent barked, "Don't sit!" She jumped up. "Answer the question."  
"W-what did I do?"  
"You fell asleep out on the front porch, that's what! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?!"  
"Yes, Grandpa, but I--"  
"No buts!" He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly all the anger was drained from his face, leaving a very frightened old  
man. O'Farland sank into a chair, running a hand through his mane of white hair, and sighed softly. "I'm sorry, Lottie. I shouldn't  
have gotten angry." Charlotte stayed standing, afraid any sudden movements would set him off again.  
"It's...all right, Grandpa. But why--" She stopped herself. Asking her grandfather why he'd become a raging volcano before her  
very eyes might not be such a good idea. Answering the question for her, Vincent reached for the newspaper that sat on the  
table.  
"Read this." Frowning slightly, Charlotte took the paper. For a moment, her blood ran cold. Across the top of the newspaper, in  
big black letters, read 'LOCAL FAMILY KILLED, POLICE BAFFLED'. She swallowed hard, hoping with all her might that it  
wasn't the Millers. Sure enough, the house surrounded by police tape in the picture was the one right down the street. She was  
torn between reading the rest and burning the paper when O'Farland engulfed her in a tight hug, making her drop it.  
"Oh, Lottie, I was so afraid. What if that--that psycho had come to our house and seen you on the front porch? You could've  
been..." Charlotte's eyes widened. Her grandfather was crying. Her grandfather never cried, and here he was sobbing on her  
shoulder. She embraced him for a while before Vincent finally pulled away and hobbled towards the kitchen. "I'm sorry. I  
shouldn't be--" He looked up, raking the back of his hand across his eyes and trying a weak grin. "Is bacon all right for  
breakfast?"  
  
Charlotte munched quietly on her strip of bacon. Vincent opened the refrigerator.  
"Lottie, you want orange juice, right?" His hand reached absently for the jug of juice, but there was none in the fridge. "Oh,  
bejeepers," he muttered, closing the door. "We're all out. I'll go on out to Smuck's and pick up a couple bottles." He headed out  
through the garage, calling back, "Keep the doors locked." Charlotte nodded as the engine sounded.  
"Bye, Grandpa." As soon as the garage door closed, she grabbed the newspaper. She really didn't know if she wanted to read  
it, but her eyes were drawn to the article. So, reluctantly, she did.  
*Police were shocked at what they found on 23 Wisteria Lane late Friday night. They received a call from a concerned neighbor,  
who said screams and loud noises could be heard from the house of the Millers. Resorted to breaking down the door, Police  
Chief Harold Shaft was met with a gruesome sight. George Miller, his wife, Sharon, and their two-year-old son, Francis had  
been decapitated--*  
  
Charlotte threw the paper across the table with a cry. She didn't think it would be like that. *Stupid,* she reminded  
herself. *How else would a Headless Horseman kill people?* Then she shook her head. *Even more stupid. There is no Headless  
Horseman.* She stood, heading for her grandfather's study. It was the only place that she could really think. Charlotte slipped  
into the office quickly, shutting the door. Then, with a cry of surprise, she opened it again.  
"You stupid, stupid cat!" She picked up Albert and nearly punted him from the room. He landed on all fours heavily, letting out  
an irritated meow. Albert turned to go back in, but ran into the closed door. He sat back, stunned, then turned and walked with  
unmistakable arrogance. His tail swished angrily back and forth, saying 'I didn't want to go in there anyway.'  
  
Charlotte paced the study nervously, hands clasped behind her back. Somehow, with the sheer silence of the room  
and knowing her only witnesses were books, her thoughts were clearer and more concise. She went over the events in her  
mind like facts in a homework assignment. First, the man appeared. Then he warned her. After that came the dream. Next,  
that creepy guy was outside her house. Then the Millers got killed. She frowned. That didn't help her at all. She plopped into a  
chair behind her grandfather's great cedar desk, scanning the bookshelves idly. Vincent O'Farland owned over 250 books in this  
room alone. However, they didn't help Charlotte in any way. The titles were all works of science--nothing about a possible  
specter who might be killing people. Her eyes drifted over a human skull sitting on the shelf and she shivered, turning away.  
That was about the last thing she wanted to see right now.  
  
There was a soft tapping on the French doors behind her. Charlotte whirled. There stood the strange man again. She  
jumped up, hand hovering near the phone that sat on the polished desk. His face tightened and he shook his head urgently.  
The man mouthed slowly,  
"Please open the door." She shook her head. He frowned slightly. "Please." They stared each other down for several minutes  
before Charlotte buckled and turned the brass lock. The door swung open and he stepped in. "Thank you." He straightened his  
coat. "It was getting rather cold out there."  
"I imagine," Charlotte muttered, closing the door. When she turned, the man was carefully inspecting the books on the shelf. He  
pulled one down and began flipping through it.  
"Amazing," he breathed, peering at a picture of the human digestion system. "These pictures are so precise! Every detail--"  
Charlotte came up behind him.  
"What do you think you're doing?! You just show up and start looking at my grandpa's stuff?" Irritable, she snatched the book  
from his hands. The man looked offended, about to reach for the book. Then he clasped his hands neatly.  
"Forgive me, Lady O'Farland."  
  
"Yeah, no problem," she muttered, sliding the tome back into the shelves. Then Charlotte turned to him. "What are  
you doing here?" He stared longingly at the books as he spoke in a clear, flat voice.  
"I'm checking up on you, Lady O'Farland. I fear I cannot leave you alone for a mere set of the sun before you get into trouble."  
"What do you mean 'get into trouble'?" Charlotte scowled, putting her hands on her hips. The man chuckled wryly, ambling over  
towards another book-covered shelf.  
"I do believe that I told you what would happen. If I remember correctly, I told you exactly what would happen. You didn't seem  
to believe me." He ran a slender finger over the spines of the books, then slid one out. "Do you believe now?"   
"What do you--hey, put that down!" She reached towards his hands to take the text, but he held it above his head.  
"I'm *reading* this," the man grumbled, trying to see the words on the page and still keep it out of Charlotte's grasp.  
"That's my grandpa's," she complained, jumping and snatching wildly for the book. "Put it down!"  
"No," he said bluntly, then turned and hunched over, reading quickly. Charlotte dodged rapidly around him, grabbing the book,  
and slid back to the desk. The man made a sound of indignance. She held the book in front of her as a shield, then said slowly,  
"I'll give it back under one condition. Tell me your name." He frowned lightly, still staring the book in her hands. His eyes flicked  
over the cover, then he seemed to brighten.  
"Isaac."  
"Isaac?"  
"Yes," Isaac darted forward and seized the book from her. "Now I am permitted to read it, I believe?"   
  
Charlotte scowled, slipping into the chair behind the cedar desk again.  
"Go on." Isaac began flipping pages eagerly, studying every word with rapt attention. She watched him, briefly seeing the title of  
the book--Laws of Gravity. She sat back and sighed irately. "Are you done yet?"  
"No, I'm not. Let me finish."  
"Fine, fine." Charlotte grumbled. He pursed his lips and set the book down on the desktop.  
"I suppose I should be helping you now," She quirked a brow.  
"You think?" Isaac slid to the window, folding his hands behind his back and staring through the frosted glass.  
"Forgive me, Lady O'Farland. I'd forgotten my intention of coming here." Charlotte stood, watching with him.  
"Why did you come here, Mr. Isaac?"  
"Just Isaac." He watched the brittle trees sway with the wind. "I came to tell you that the Horseman will strike again."  
"What?" She pulled his shoulder so he faced her. "He's going to... I mean, more people are going to die?" Isaac nodded  
absently, not really looking at her.  
"Yes."  
"*Who?*" He sighed softly.  
"I don't know for certain, Lady O'Farland. Someone nearby." Charlotte's breathing was heavy again.  
"Oh, no...no..." Isaac noted her distress and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.  
"I want to help," he said quietly. His words were soft, but they were strained as well, as if it hurt him to talk. "and I will help in  
any way I know how. But right now, Lady O'Farland, *I don't know what to do.*"   
  
Charlotte blinked.  
"You *what?*" Isaac's fingers drummed her shoulder, then he pulled his hand back.  
"I don't know precisely what to do at this point in time--"  
"You *what?*" Charlotte shrieked, swatting his chest. "You come here and screw around, playing your little mind games and  
riddles and then you tell me you *don't know what to do?!*"   
"Lady O'Farland, control yourself!" Isaac began inching away, but she followed him, randomly jabbing his chest and shoving  
him backwards.  
"You *idiot!* You have a *plan* before you take the role of the knight in shining armor, you big lump!" Charlotte gave him another  
push.  
"Lady O'Farland--!" Isaac stumbled back towards a bookshelf.  
"Don't you come in here all snooty and self-righteous like you've got a big, elaborate plot and then say you don't know what to  
do! It's *insane!*"  
"Charlotte--!" With one more large shove, he lost his footing and went tumbling. His back hit the wooden shelf and several  
books came crashing down on his head. Isaac blinked, then landed hard on his bottom, causing one last thing to plunge down  
into his lap--the skull. He stared at it with wide dark eyes, bewildered. Charlotte's eyes were large and unblinking as well.  
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry--" Isaac took his baffled gaze from the skull to her.  
"It all happened so quickly..." After a moment, Charlotte burst into a fit of laughter. 


	4. The Conversing

Chapter IV  
The Conversing  
  
She tried to cover her mouth with both hands, but giggles seeped out anyway. Isaac scowled.  
"It's not at *all* amusing, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte tried to regain composure.  
"You're right. It's not--" As he tried to get to his feet, another book toppled off the shelves and onto Isaac's head. Charlotte  
snorted with pent up laughter. He glared at her as he managed to gain his balance, rubbing his skull with slender fingers.  
"It is *not* humorous, Lady O'Farland." She nodded, still hiding her snickers.  
"I know, I know..." After a moment, Isaac allowed a small smile.  
"Perhaps it is a bit funny." Charlotte grinned and sat down on the plush armchair.  
"It was priceless." He winced, still massaging his head, but succeeded in keeping good spirits. Isaac sat down behind the desk  
after receiving a nod of approval from the girl.  
"And I am sorry for not having a strategy yet," he said, folding his hands in his lap. Charlotte thought for a moment, then sighed  
lightly.  
"I'm sorry too." Isaac looked up at her.  
"For what?"  
"For acting like that. You see, I'm still not completely sure what's going on, and everything's just all confused." She kept her  
gaze down on the fallen books and skull so as not to look at Isaac. "And I'm not sure about this Headless Horseman thing  
either. It's probably just a psycho, you know. A serial killer." She inspected the gold writing on the cover of a book called  
Physics in Action while he spoke.  
"How do you deduce that?"  
"Well, for one, there aren't such things as ghosts." No reaction from Isaac. "And for another, men go crazy all the time. Postal  
workers, teachers, doctors... They just snap and start committing murder." As the words came out, they made more and more  
sense to Charlotte. "The murders are usually very precise and organized, with very specific details. I read one book where a  
man killed ten people, following a nursery rhyme about Indians." Then it slid into place. "That's *it!*"  
"What's it, Lady O'Farland?" Charlotte jumped up.  
"Some nut finally decided that the legend of Sleepy Hollow should be made truth and just started lopping off heads!"  
  
Silence.  
  
She looked at Isaac, waiting for a response.  
"Don't you think so?" He inhaled through his nose, then leaned forward on the desk with his elbows, his fingers entwined.  
"No." The word was short and blunt, as if he'd made up his mind completely.  
"What?"  
"I said I do not think that's what is occurring here." Charlotte frowned.  
"And why not, Mr. I-Fall-Into-A-Bookshelf-And-Become-All-Knowing?" Isaac seemed to be contemplating.  
"It doesn't seem plausible." She snorted.  
"What, books plunging down onto your head makes you a psychic?" He frowned slightly, creasing the skin of his brow.  
"No. It just doesn't seem logical that a town of reasonably sane people could just suddenly produce a raving lunatic." She  
smirked.  
"And a Headless Horseman does?" Isaac's frown deepened and Charlotte backed off. "All right, then tell me more about the  
story--what happened afterwards, I mean." After a moment's thought, he nodded.  
"Very well. The morning after...the event, townspeople began wondering where Crane had gone off to. They searched high and  
low, but found no trace of the schoolmaster--save the hoof prints of his horse and some smashed pumpkin."  
"And that man? Bones, you said?"  
"Ah, yes, Abraham Van Brunt. His nickname was Brom Bones, for his strength. He helped in the search, but, like the others,  
found nothing. He married the Lady Van Tassel and lived a full, happy life." Isaac didn't seem to like the taste of the words in  
his mouth. Charlotte mulled this over a little.  
"Is there anything you can tell me about the Horseman?" He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows a bit.  
"Nothing you would enjoy."  
"Well, I really don't like any of this, but tell me anyway."  
"Very well."  
  
He sighed lightly, forehead furrowing in concentration.  
"There are different tales, but what seems to be the foundation of truth on this being is that he was a Hessian cavalryman, sent  
from Germany. This was during the Revolutionary War, so he had been employed by the English king to push back the  
advancing Americans. He was as foul in life as he is in death, for though he was being compensated for his loathsome work, he  
relished the kill. The Horseman was notorious for his attack--he wasted no time in driving his enemies through. No, he simply  
lopped off the heads and went on.  
His end came, nevertheless, and it is still disputed as to how this appalling mercenary was slain. There are variations,  
as I've said before. Some say his head was knocked clean off by a cannon; others insist it was with an ax. However, the most  
likely story says his horse was shot while riding towards a battle. The Horseman mourned the loss and tried to escape into the  
woods, but American soldiers caught up with him eventually. They chopped his head off with his own sword, then laid him to  
rest in a grave not far from Sleepy Hollow. But no, he would not stay *in* the ground. He wanders the forest outside the town,  
claiming any head that comes near, for he will not rest in Hell where he belongs. His is an angry spirit. The Horseman, I fear,  
will not surrender until the injustice that he feels has been committed is righted."  
  
Charlotte stared at him.  
"My, you're a regular story book, you know that?" Isaac let another small smile surface.  
"I do what I can." She propped her chin on a hand, as Isaac was now doing.  
"But if he wanders the grounds *outside* Sleepy Hollow, why is he now *in* Sleepy Hollow?" He sighed lightly.  
"That, I'm afraid, is yet to be clarified." Charlotte frowned.  
"There are a lot of things yet to be clarified," she muttered. Isaac sighed again.  
"I know. However, Lady O'Farland, I will try to discover the answers to these persisting questions. I can only do that if you trust  
me." Charlotte watched a cardinal that had landed outside on the patio.  
"I'm not completely sure I can do that." There was a small thud, as if something had fallen.  
"What?" She turned to look at Isaac, whose chin had slipped off his hand.  
"It just doesn't seem...*plausible,*" she said, stressing the word he had used before. "Do you know how hard it is to believe that  
an angry ghost is terrorizing my neighborhood? I can't do that. I can't." Isaac folded his hands in his lap, surveying them as if  
they held the answer to his problems. When he spoke, his words were tense and tight.  
"And why not?" Charlotte observed the tiny bird hop around on the cold, hard cement before flying away.  
"Well, for one, there is no evidence that ghosts exist." No opinions from Isaac. She continued. "For another, there is evidence of  
normal, flesh and blood *murder*. But if the Horseman shows up at my door, waving his sword and lacking a head, I'll believe  
you. For now, I can't be absolutely sure." Isaac pulled himself from his chair, making his way towards the French doors.  
Charlotte followed. He stared outside at the numb, gray world. Then, finally, he turned to her. His face was stony and cold.  
"If you do not believe in the apparition, then you do not believe in me." She frowned slightly.  
"I know, and I don't mean to be so cruel, but it's not scientifically possible--" Isaac snorted angrily.  
"Did you listen at *all* to my story, Lady O'Farland? You are acting just as Ichabod Crane did! He thought that science and  
reason could protect him!"  
"Science and reason are a good, strong truth I can believe in--"  
"*No!* Crane thought that science and reason could protect him, but in truth, they bound and gagged him! Do you not *see?*" Both  
had their fists clenched.  
"Crane was just a character in a fairy tale, Isaac! I see *just fine!*"  
"No, you do not! Charlotte, I can only help you if I gain your trust! Do you trust me, Charlotte?" Isaac seized her hands in his  
silver ones, enveloping them in a metallic chill. "*Do you trust me?*" The ice was spreading up her arms. Charlotte tried to pull  
away, but his silver hands would not let go. "*Do you trust me?*"  
"I trust you, I trust you!" Isaac seemed to sober. He let her hands drop.  
"Good. Because, Lady O'Farland, I will aid you in any way possible. But if you do not trust me, I cannot help at all."  
  
Charlotte looked down at the ground, a small scowl on her face while she rubbed her hands.  
"Don't do that," she whispered.  
"Do what?" Isaac muttered, glancing out the window.  
"Grab me like that. Your hands are so cold." He frowned, tucking the offending hands in his pockets.  
"I'm sorry." There was an uncomfortable period of silence before Charlotte opened her mouth to speak again. Then the garage  
door sounded, signaling the return of her grandfather.  
"Oh, God. Grandpa's home." She opened the door and turned to Isaac. "You have to go. He'll freak if he finds you here." When  
he didn't move, she put her hands at the small of his back and pushed him out. "Go!" Isaac stumbled outside, then  
straightened and gave her a nod.  
"I see I must leave you now. I will attempt to talk with you later, Lady O'Farland." He reached out as if to shake her hand, then  
grimaced and pulled it back. "Take care, Lady O'Farland." Then, with something of a morbid smile, he added, "Don't lose your  
head." A shudder ran through Charlotte, but she hid it and slammed the door, pulling closed the curtains.  
"Charlotte! I've got the orange juice!" After a moment, she peered past the curtains to the dying garden. Isaac was gone.  
"Coming, Grandpa." 


	5. The Entrusting

Chapter V  
The Entrusting  
  
"Are you sure you don't want to go shopping with me? I don't know if I want to leave you alone here, with all that's  
happening--"  
"I'll be fine, Grandpa," Charlotte insisted, ushering her grandfather out the door. "Breakfast was delicious, but I really need to  
get cracking on my homework. You go and have fun." Vincent stopped dead in his tracks, making her run into his back.  
"Are you sure, Charlotte?"  
"Positive." She gave him another push out the door. "Go golfing if you want, I don't care." He chuckled.  
"I think golfing's out. Look at it pour." The rain outside fell in silver sheets, accompanied by a flash of lightning every now and  
then.  
"Have fun, Grandpa. That's an order."  
"Oh, fine." He kissed her on the cheek. "Keep the doors locked. Don't answer, even if the bell rings--"  
"I know. Just go!" O'Farland laughed and hobbled out the door.  
"I can tell when I'm being thrown out. Bye, Lottie."  
"Bye, Grandpa!" Charlotte waved vigorously until the Elantra pulled out of the garage and the door lowered. Then she dropped  
her hand and slammed the door.   
  
"Isaac! Isaac, I know you're around here somewhere! Come out!" She stood in the living room in silence, then yelled  
again. "Isaac, you big lump! Get out here--" Charlotte stopped. "I'm so stupid," she muttered, turning to the window. Then she  
screamed. Outside on the front porch was a tall, dark figure, his neck a bare black stump... She screamed again and again, but  
there was no one to hear her. Then the hood was pulled back. "Oh my God--Isaac?!" He was drenched, his dark hair plastered  
to his head. "What are you doing out there?!" Isaac frowned and motioned to the door. She opened it and let him in. "What were  
you doing out there?" she repeated.  
"Getting wet, mostly," Isaac grumbled, shaking his head to release excess water. Charlotte got splashed with drops of rain and  
sputtered.  
"Watch it. You smell like a wet dog." He ran a hand through his midnight black hair and frowned.  
"Thank you so very much for the warm welcome." She grinned obnoxiously.  
"Any time." Isaac brushed off his jacket and stayed quiet. Charlotte bit her lip, rubbing her right arm. "Um... would you like a  
towel?" He looked up and nodded.  
"Yes, if it would not trouble you." She smiled slightly, heading for the linen closet.  
"What? You think I'm going to give you a towel when you're wet and cold? What kind of weirdo are you?" Isaac shifted  
uncomfortably.  
"I'm sorry." Charlotte pulled a rather large, fluffy burgundy towel from the wardrobe and shoved it at his chest.  
"I was joking. You're dripping wet, you big galoot." Isaac nodded, smiling sheepishly.  
"Ah. Right." He put the towel over his head and ruffled it around. When he pulled it off, his hair was mussed and in disarray.  
Charlotte snickered and Isaac looked up. "What?"  
"Nothing... You just look like a sheepdog." He finished toweling off, rolling his eyes.   
"You're so droll, Lady O'Farland." Charlotte took the cloth from him and started for the laundry room, then turned back.   
"Give me your coat." Isaac frowned, but slipped it off anyway.  
"Why?"  
"I'll run it through the dryer. You'll die of frostbite in that thing." She walked to the laundry room and set the dryer, then tossed  
the towel inside and shut the door. "Besides, you'll get the furniture wet." The machine began humming and Charlotte ambled  
back out to the living room. Isaac pulled off his boots and sat down on the couch.  
"Your concern is touching, Lady O'Farland." She smiled and sat down beside him.  
"I try." Suddenly a bit embarrassed to be sitting next to the barefooted, jacket-shed young man, Charlotte coughed and scooted  
away. "So what did you need to discuss now?" Isaac rubbed his neck absently.  
"Well, I'm not quite sure. Seeing as another murder may be taking place in the near future, I presume we need to take  
affirmative action." Charlotte rose a russet brow.  
"Oh? Any affirmative action in mind?" He shifted and sighed.  
"No." She glared down at the space between her feet.  
"Well, damn." Isaac half smiled and kneaded his forehead.  
"Yes, that sums it up rather well."  
  
After sitting in silence for a moment, Charlotte looked over at him.  
"Um... I'd like to thank you for... ah... trying to help me and everything." Isaac nodded a little, turning towards her.  
"You're most welcome." Charlotte's shoulder touched his and she swallowed, trying to move away subconsciously.  
"Well--" she began, then cleared her throat when her voice broke. "Well, there isn't any idea of who might be the next victims?"  
"No." Well, that was the end of that conversation. They sat in silence for another agonizingly long moment. Then the phone  
rang.  
"Ah! Bloody--!" Charlotte leapt to her feet and ran to the cordless phone on the wall of the kitchen. She picked it up after  
glancing at Isaac. "Hello?"  
"Hello, Charlotte, darling!" sang an English accent on the other line. She winced and covered the receiver with her hand.  
"It's my mother!" Then she let it go and acquired a bright voice. "Why hello, Mother! I'm absolutely delighted to hear from you!"  
"Now stop that. I know you're upset about your father and I missing your birthday, biscuit, but it couldn't be avoided." Charlotte  
covered her face with her free hand.  
"Mother, please refrain from addressing me as a food product."  
"Charly, dear--"  
"And whatever you do, don't call me Charly," she begged, her only comfort being that Isaac couldn't hear her mother. Mrs.  
O'Farland sighed heavily, as if the deprivation of using the embarrassing name was as drastic as the loss of blood.  
"Very well, Charlotte. I simply wished to call and talk with you for a while."  
"I'm... pretty busy, Mom. I've got a--" She glanced at Isaac. "--um, a friend over. Can you call back later?"  
"No, I'm sorry, darling," her mother said apologetically, and it was all Charlotte could do not to dance a little jig right in the  
middle of the kitchen. "Your father and I are heading for London tomorrow. We've been invited to a Halloween party."  
"Oh, gosh. I completely forgot! Monday is--"  
"Halloween, yes. Aren't you going to a party with your friends?" What friends? she immediately thought.  
"Oh... yeah, of course." Charlotte shifted impatiently from foot to foot. "Well, my friend looks pretty bored." Isaac had slipped off  
into the study and returned with a stack of books. He was now buried in a copy of Astronomy Through the Ages. "I'd better go,  
Mom." Another sigh.  
"Of course. Cheerio, sweet pea."  
"Goodbye, silly sausage."  
"Charlotte!"  
"Sorry, Mother. Goodbye." There was a faint click and then the dial tone. With a groan, Charlotte slammed the phone down  
onto the hook and went back into the den. "I can't leave you alone for a second!" Isaac shut the book, using his finger as a  
marker.  
"It didn't look like you would be done any time soon, so I took the liberty of--"  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go on and read." She plopped down beside him. Isaac blinked.  
"Oh. Thank you." Then he put his nose back between the pages.  
  
Charlotte leaned over his shoulder, pointing at a picture on the page.  
"That's Leo. The lion. See? It looks like a big 'p'."  
"Mm hm. And that one?"  
"That's the Northern Cross." Isaac squinted at the constellations mapped in the book.  
"Are you certain? It doesn't look like a cross."  
"Yeah, I know. Weird, huh?" Charlotte peered at the book, then turned and looked out the window. It was suddenly as if there  
was no danger, as if this man was a friend instead of a stranger. As if there wasn't a feeling of impending evil in her chest.  
"Ow! What's this?" She was startled by Isaac's outburst. Charlotte took the box from him quickly.  
"Oh, nothing. Just a present from someone far away." He set the book aside and tilted his head slightly.  
"May I see?" She bit her lip and opened it, taking out the necklace. She'd nearly forgotten about it. Charlotte fingered the  
elegant chain.  
"I guess you could look at it." Isaac held out his hand and she handed it over. He examined it carefully.   
"It's quite lovely."  
"Yeah." Charlotte watched him inspect it, then ventured, "You can have it if you want." He looked up.  
"Are you sure you'd want to do that?" She stared at the dainty cross, then nodded.  
"Yes. I want you to have it. I really don't need it." Isaac chuckled lightly.  
"Do you think it would match my shoes?" Charlotte rolled her eyes.   
"Just keep it in your pocket, then." She swallowed, glancing out the window. "Think of it as a... well, something to show you  
that... that I trust you." She could see Isaac out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her.  
"Are you certain? You're certain you trust me?" She stared outside, then sighed in frustration.  
"No, no I'm not. But take the damn thing anyway." Isaac closed his hand over the trinket.  
"As you wish, Lady O'Farland."  
  
The dryer buzzed loudly.  
"Well, I guess you'd better be going." Isaac continued to watch her, then began putting on his boots.  
"I imagine you're correct." Charlotte got up and fetched his jacket from the laundry room. She brought it back out as he stood  
up. Isaac reached out to take the coat, but she held on to it.  
"Who's going to die, Isaac? Who's going to die?" He frowned slightly, tugging at it.  
"I told you, I don't know. If I knew, Lady O'Farland, I'd tell you." Charlotte resisted a moment, then let the jacket go with a sigh.  
"You're right." Isaac nodded, pulling the hood over his hair.  
"Of course I am." He gave a rather over-elaborate bow. "'Till we meet again, Lady O'Farland." That being said, he turned and  
opened the door.  
"Goodbye, Isaac." The door banged closed. Charlotte rubbed her arms, shivering, and watched the figure disappear down the  
driveway. She waited until he reached the road before rotating the lock. Then, feeling awfully cold and wet, she hurried to the  
bathroom to take a shower.  
  



	6. The Returning

Chapter VI  
The Returning  
  
The rain outside had lessened to a soft drizzle. Rubbing her shoulders to generate some heat, Charlotte went back  
into the study. The French doors revealed the garden, gentle drops falling from the sky. The water had come too late, she  
knew; the garden was dying. Frost had already reached the roots of the flowers and crept up slowly, shriveling leaves and  
turning petals black. Charlotte turned to an armchair and settled herself down into it. The death would come soon. As sure as  
the roses would lose their blush and wilt, there would be another loss of life in Sleepy Hollow.  
  
"Charlotte?" She whirled, thinking it was Isaac. No, her grandfather stood in the doorway. "Are you all right, honey?"  
He held a single shopping bag. Charlotte pushed back a strand of red hair and nodded.  
"Yeah, Grandpa. Of course." She straightened and tried to look interested. "What did you buy?" O'Farland glanced down at his  
sack.  
"Oh, this? I just got a winter coat. The snow will be upon us early this year. But," he admitted with a sigh, "I think I'll have to  
take it back. I might be allergic to the material."  
"Don't worry. If you need to, I'll be fine by myself." Vincent hobbled further into the room and placed the bag on the desk.  
"I know you will." The pile of books outside the door suddenly caught his attention. "When did those--"  
"Oh, those?" Charlotte hurried out and gathered them into her arms. "I--uh--decided to take up a little reading." He took one  
from the top of the stack and rose a brow.  
"Intestinal Tracts and You?" She laughed nervously.  
"Yeah. I thought I should...enlighten myself."  
"On intestines?" Charlotte snatched the book from him and began putting them back on the shelves.  
"Yeah. You can never know too much." O'Farland squinted at her through his spectacles.  
"Perhaps one can know too much on innards. But I could be wrong." He looked over the spines of the writings. Finding one that  
suited him, her grandfather slid it out and made his way over to the desk. "You may stay in here and read with me if you like."  
"I don't think so, Grandpa." Charlotte put the last book on the shelf. "I have a bad headache. I think I'll take a nap." She headed  
for the door.  
"Charlotte." Vincent's voice had an edge to it.  
"Yes, Grandpa?"  
"You've been acting rather strange lately. Are you sure you're all right?" She sighed lightly.  
"Yes... I'm fine. I just have a headache." O'Farland watched her back for a moment, then turned his gaze down to the chosen  
reading.  
"All right. I believe you, kitten. Have a nice nap."  
  
Charlotte collapsed on the bed in her room.  
"God... I swear, Grandpa knows more about what's going on than I do." Albert prowled in and leapt up on the bed, but instead  
of shoving him off, the girl flopped back with a moan. "This is just too weird," she muttered, staring at the white crunchy ceiling  
as if it had some kind of answer. "I'm overreacting. There isn't going to be any murder. There isn't going to be anything out of  
the ordinary at all." Albert settled down at the end of the bed, not listening to a word Charlotte was saying. "I'm just going to go  
to sleep and everything will be normal." Having said that, she closed her hazel eyes tightly and waited for slumber.  
  
*The night was cold, black, and silent... Large flakes of snow fell from the sky while the shadow watched at the edge of  
the street... The slayer would come again...  
The very twilight seemed to hold its breath while the ground vibrated... vibrated with the weight of thundering hoofbeats...  
He came...  
The mercenary arrived in a cloud of disturbed powder, an enraged neigh eliciting from the horse... A new household he traveled  
to this time, a house of new prey... Again his steed was stopped... again he dismounted... His very steps melted the snow  
underfoot, nearly scorching the ground below... A door went crashing down... A sword was drawn from its sheath... A high,  
wavering shriek...  
Utter stillness...   
The stallion pawed the ground impatiently, and out he strode... After mounting with ease, the reigns were given a sharp snap...  
But no command was needed, for off stormed Daredevil, the Horseman holding tight to his new treasure...  
From the street watched the man...  
He shook his head in dejection, then turned and disappeared into the forest...*  
  
Two eyes. Two huge blue eyes stared right at her. Charlotte shrieked and shoved the cat off of her chest.  
"You stupid, stupid, *stupid* cat! Argh!" Albert flailed wildly in the air before landing on all fours. "Argh! A-argh!" She shook her  
head, trying to hide the apprehension the dream had caused. "What is wrong with you, you stupid cat?!" Albert mewed  
indignantly. A pillow went sailing past his head. "Get out, you miserable excuse for a throw rug!" He sped out of the room,  
hissing and spitting like a demon. Charlotte watched him leave, then pressed a palm to her forehead. Sweat. She was suddenly  
alarmed at the lack of light, so she turned to the clock. "What? Seven thirty?" It was half past seven. There was slight comfort.  
"He couldn't have killed anyone yet," she murmured. "It's not midnight. Isaac said not until midnight." There was a short knock  
on her door. "Come in."  
"Lottie, honey, are you all right?" It was Vincent, whose face popped in shortly after speaking.  
"Yeah, I'm fine--" He walked the rest of the way in.  
"That's what you said earlier. Kitten, I'm worried about you. You slept for six and a half hours. What's wrong with you?"  
Charlotte frowned down at her bedspread.  
"I don't know." There was a duration of quiet. Then, trying to change the subject, Charlotte looked up. "Why do you call me  
kitten sometimes?" Vincent blinked, then sat down at the end of her bed.  
"Well... I heard my mother call my younger sister that every now and then. It was some kind of family name from her side..."  
Pausing to think a moment, O'Farland then got up and patted her shoulder. "Come on, we'll go look at the family tree and figure  
this out."  
  
Her grandfather tottered over to the desk and opened a drawer. Inside lay a leather bound collection of pictures.  
O'Farland pulled it out and sat next to Charlotte gingerly.  
"This is the photo album. See?" He lifted the front cover and pointed to a rather large depiction of an elm tree, names and dates  
growing off the branches. "There's the newest addition. That's you." In curvy writing was the name Charlotte Lucinda O'Farland,  
1983. Below that lay her mother, Sela Freedom Gaynor, then her father, Adrian Hunter O'Farland, and past that generations of  
people, including grandfather, her late grandmother... Spans of time, all the way back to the revolutionary years.  
"What name are we looking for?"  
"Something that would explain the nickname 'kitten'. I remember, your great grandmother called your great aunt 'kitten' and  
'kitty' all the time..." He ran a gnarled finger all over the page. "Perhaps a Katie, or a Kathleen."  
"What's that?" Charlotte piped up, pointing at tiny cursive near the bottom. O'Farland squinted through his glasses.  
"Uh... That was my mother's great, great, great--" He took a breath. "--great grandmother. Dutch." Charlotte strained to see, but  
couldn't make out the words.  
"I can't read it. What does it say?"  
"Ah, it says, 'Katherine'--no, no... 'Katriona'? No, no..." Out of patience, she took the book into her own lap.  
"Let me see." She inspected the writing carefully. A great, great aunt named Bidelia, a long lost cousin called Gareth... Then  
she shoved it away. "Grandpa, my headache's back. Really bad. Can you get me an aspirin?" Looking confused, Vincent  
heaved himself from the chair.  
"Of course, Lottie," he murmured, exiting the study. As soon as he left, Charlotte seized the album again and held it close to her  
face.  
"No, that can't be right. It's wrong. It's *wrong*." At the very bottom of the page read the name of Charlotte's long ago ancestor:  
Katrina Rebecca Van Tassel, 1781.  



End file.
